


Just Like...

by marcosburlybiceps



Category: Cassandra Palmer Series - Karen Chance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Femslash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-08 13:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcosburlybiceps/pseuds/marcosburlybiceps
Summary: Just Like Heaven rewrite with Agnes and Françoise.Written in chunks and a little out of order





	1. Chapter 1

Francoise pops open another can of beer, one in a long line of sweaty cans dripping despair and self-hatred on the floor-- _oh, wait, that was her_. She's curled up on the red couch of her apartment with one leg sticking out of the blanket to keep her body just the right temp. The ceiling fan is circling overhead too. Why be depressed and lonely without the dramatics of being curled under a blanket even in the middle of this heat? At least this way something is holding her.

She thumbs to the next picture of her shirtless ex, Randy,--god she dated a man named RANDY--and his perfect 10 pack abs and Adonis v-line.

Every man she's picked to love--like--shack up with--has been a loser. Except there's a common denominator here isn't there? Her. She was the loser with the special taste for losers that promise to be exclusive, but keep their lovers and say nothing. She has to find the thong that is NOT HERS under the pillow after they netflix and chilled for the billionth time.

He stared at it on his empty spot on the bed when he came back from the bathroom. Then his eyes teared up, like she cared. He knew the rules. She said no one else. He had a thong under his pillow, and tears in his eyes. They were over.

She thumbs to the last pic of Randy, this one with her smiling next to him. Her old phone with the cracked screen needs to be and could be replaced if she'd just get off the couch and stop staring at pics of Randy's very muscular chest. Her apartment could be clean. Her laundry could be done. She could be out with her friends living an actual life.

Women who respect themselves do not settle for netflix and chill. They go on actual dates in high heels and a clean skirt, smile charmingly, and don't hook up afterwards. They date people they can bring home to their mothers without cringing. They actually bring their partners to meet their mothers instead of freezing at the thought, and mentally promising never think it again.

The empty can went on the hardwood floor with the others.

 

\------

 

"I think we should go back to the apartments that didn't answer the door last time. Where else can we go? Maybe one of them is my baby sitter--"

A loud knocking comes from this apartment's door and she closes her mouth in surprise, finally. They stare at each other for a beat before walking down the apartment's long center hallway in tandem. Francoise pulls her phone from her back pocket and looks for a missed call or text or some clue to who could be at her doorstep.

"Hello?" she calls, keeping the door closed. Answering the door without knowing who's behind it in this day and age is strange. If you weren't expecting a closet of dresses to be coming in the mail from a midnight-wine-fueled-ebay-shopping-spree, there should not be a stranger on your doorstep.

"Babe? I really need to talk to you."

Randy.

"Babe?" Agnes voice is sharper than the clench of Francoise's heart at hearing his voice. She can feel the spirit's gaze digging into her skull. _What's she looking for?_

"We're over Randy. Go home." Francoise stares a hole into the door avoiding Agnes eyes, crossed arms, and her small scoff at 'Randy'. Her hands are sweating from the tension escalating in her body. What line did he bring to try to hook her again? How was her thong discovery and icy leaving not enough for him? Why do they always try to bring her back?

"Baby, please. Open the door."

"Yeah, open the door. I want to see what this winner looks like without having to stick my head through the wall."

"You wouldn't!" Francoise hisses as low as she can and still sound menacing. Mostly she sounds congested.

Agnes snorts and sticks her head through anyway. Francoise opens the door the full length the chain will allow, pushing Agnes fully through it, and directly in front of her ex. Fire courses through her at the audacity of Agnes sticking herself fully into Francoise's private, and deleted and blocked and ignored, life.

"I said 'go'." She all but growls. Randy's eyebrows leap up at her vicious expression.

Francoise's eyes refocus on the absence of Agnes. She had been on starting to circle Randy and smirking. Where did she go now? Francoise closes the door, unhooks the chain, reopens it fully, and pushes Randy over to look around the outer hall. She's nowhere. Randy's stuttering out something about missing her, and keeps on stuttering after Francoise closes the door.

 

\------

 

Francoise removes the cold water bottle she's been holding to her forehead. Her fingers make swirl circle patterns on the plastic. She's curled under a blanket on the red couch again with both feet inside it this chilly morning. Her fingertips pulse with her headache.

Randy took her to a Thai place once saying it was a real date. The inside of the restaurant had red walls and gold deity figures everywhere. Each table had purple flowers, and a flickering candle. The red curry was to die for. She'd worn one of her nicer dresses with pink blossoms and green vines all throughout. It had a keyhole back. 

He'd dressed like normal in tight jeans and a tighter t-shirt. He knew the owner's son so their food was supposed to be free, except the son hadn't shown up for his shift in the kitchen, so he had to scramble for the cash afterwards.

He smiled so sweetly on the drive home talking about how pretty she looked. His hand seemed to fit so nicely in hers. It fit nicely under her dress later that night. She could never figure out how he got his shirts off without ripping them.

She feels nothing but the beat of her heart in her hands. She thinks nothing but _let him go let him go let him go let him go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song is [New Rules by Dua Lupa](https://youtu.be/k2qgadSvNyU)


	2. Chapter 2

The bag is as heavy as always as Agnes lifts it to her shoulder and untucks her dark hair from under the strap. Her heels echo down the empty hall that ends at the side exit doors of the studio. Her left ankle creaks a little when she pushes the door open with her other hip. _That better heal soon._

One day she'll have a real dressing room and won't have to drag toe shoes and lipstick from the theater to home and back. One of the other dancers is a kelpto and Agnes is tired of having to buy new earrings every month. Who steals used earrings?

She opens her car door and tosses the bag onto the passenger seat. It lands and bounces to the floor, spilling everything. Agnes swears and starts picking it all up. 

She needs that money for food. If she doesn't eat, she faints during practice, doesn't get paid, and she and Rhea live on the street. Yeah, fame would be heady sweet after years of this: split toe nails, lying in bed with her arms splayed under gas station ice bags, and telling her daughter she can’t lift her until her hip heals. Fame comes with better paychecks and better clothes for her daughter. Rhea matters above all.

Bag settled and fully closed, she turns the key in the ignition.

 _Brown eyes locked with her own. Warm hand on her cheek. Other hand on the small of her back holding her still. Thumb wipes away a tear track. Her heart jumps. Full lips smile back. “You remember?”_  
  
Agnes lifts her hand to her cheek and feels tears. 

\-----

Francoise pulls back the shower curtain and--pulse now beating in her throat ears hands--rips it from the rod as she slides backwards and lands hard on the slick tub floor. The 'eep' she makes is swallowed by the waterfall of shampoo bottles clattering on top of each other.

A woman stands before the sink facing the mirror. Light gray winter coat open, long dark hair bisected by a thick white scarf. Her forehead is blood and split skin. White eyes. Right hand dripping blood on the rug and oh god her fingers are _twisted_.

"Who the fu--where the--WHAT THE FUCK"

The woman is gone. Split between ‘who’ and ‘where’. Choking on terror, Francoise tries to get her feet under her to put something on and get out of there get out of here get out. She bangs her knee on the side of the tub causing more curse words to fill the room.

Finally falling out of the top, she grabs a towel and tucks it on. She stops in front of the door and holds the knob with shaking arms. _Deep breaths._ She pulls it open.

The living room is empty. So is the kitchen. Françoise remembers Jared Padalecki’s washboard abs and steps slowly towards her spice cupboard. What would he do if a bloody woman popped in and out of his bathroom in the middle of the night—ok 8PM but she has a job in the morning—without a word? There are merits in both A. turning on rain sounds, drinking some of that bear tea behind the box of oats she inexplicably owns, and climbing into bed and B. finding a motel to crash at...

“Who are you and why are you in my home?! And why are you naked?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agnes's song [ain't it fun by paramore](https://youtu.be/EFEmTsfFL5A)


End file.
